Bobby's War

by Shirley Mann

  He paused for a moment before he walked clear of the wings. ‘Actually, do you know what? I’m not. It’s usually the men who get them damaged in the first place.’

  Bobby laughed and mounted the aircraft, settling herself into the pilot’s seat. She took her helmet off, shook out her hair and prepared to concentrate fully.

  She got her maps out, her compass, protractor, ruler and pencil. She had ten minutes to prepare but had done the route from Bicester to White Waltham before, and the one from there to Kemble, so it was just the third one up to RAF Woolsington on the north-east coast that she was unfamiliar with. She drew straight black lines to give her the most direct routes she would need to follow with the four different aircraft, noting the landmarks en route, then she checked the handling notes. It was the second Swordfish she had flown that week, so she was quite familiar with its foibles and she settled into the seat happily and put her helmet back on.

  Bobby carried out her pre-flight checks going through the HTTMPPFGG – hydraulics, trim, tension, mixture, pitch, petrol, flaps, gills, gauges, otherwise remembered as ‘Hot Tempered MP Fancies Girls’, and gently eased the throttle to start taxiing. Her shoulders relaxed. It was just her and the aircraft and that was exactly how she liked it.

  As she took off, she began to sing.

  Chapter 2

  The clouds, for once, behaved as the textbooks dictated and Bobby arrived back at her Hamble-le-Rice digs in good time to wash her hair and iron her shirt for the next day. She shared the accommodation – a large country house with a sweeping gravel drive – with another ATA girl, Sally, a blonde who towered above many of the men they came across. Amy Johnson’s flight from Croydon to Australia in 1930 had inspired so many well-off girls to learn to fly and many of them had been first in line to join the ATA. Sally was among them but her rebellious character meant she loved to fly close to the wind – in the air and on the ground. The daughter of an aristocrat, she came from a very advantaged background which meant she was used to getting her own way and often scandalised the other girls by diverting her delivery routes to go for luncheon with friends, or making sure she arrived late at a delivery site in order to stay over for a glamorous party. There was no schedule she could not break, no excuse too implausible for her to use with her superiors. She had announced on the first day that rules were meant to be flouted, a pronouncement that had made all the other conscientious girls rear up in protest. Sally only shrugged at their shocked expressions, adding that she had every intention of finding herself a rich, titled husband by the end of the war and that the ATA would give her a status that would impress even an earl.

  Bobby walked into the large kitchen that had a huge pine table in the middle, copper pans hung up around the edges and a black Aga on one side; a status symbol that had always given the cook, Mrs Hampson, the chance to boast to the whole village about having four ovens. Unfortunately, that boast had been scuppered by the fuel shortages and she was having to manage on just one ring of an old cooker, a fact she never wasted a chance to complain about. The blackout curtains were pulled and with no supper to prepare, the cook and two ladies from the village who helped out were scurrying about having a good clean up while the owners of the house, Colonel and Mrs Mason, were out visiting friends. Mrs Hampson smiled at Bobby; she liked this one, she was nice, not like that hoity toity one who treated all the staff with disdain. She approved of Bobby’s tidy room and the fact that she did her own ironing.

  ‘I’ll do you some supper if you’d like, miss,’ she said, putting down her Mansion polish.

  ‘It’s OK, Mrs Hampson, I can make a sandwich, just tell me what I can have.’

  ‘There’s actually some Spam left in the fridge from the weekend. And I think there might be a bit of chutney from last summer in the scullery.’

  ‘That sounds wonderful,’ Bobby told her, grabbing a plate from the dresser. ‘Is Sally in?’

  ‘Not that I know of, but she only talks to me when she wants food, so how would I know?’

  Bobby smiled and got on with making her sandwich. She was delighted that for once, she might be able to have the bathroom to herself. Sally was an entertaining housemate but she always took over when she was there, making getting ready into an elaborate ritual centred around herself.

  The kitchen was a better, and warmer, place to eat than the cold dining room so Bobby perched on a high wooden stool to have her supper. The two middle-aged ladies stood around nervously until Bobby smiled at them, at which point one of them set about scrubbing a pan with crushed eggshells and the other dripped out cold tea to wipe down the worksurfaces. Mrs Hampson meanwhile got on with boiling scraps of soap with bits of herbs to make new bars, a task she undertook every week. Bobby recognised the routine as one she had watched so many times in the kitchen at home in Norfolk but took note of the different herbs that Mrs Hampson used so she could tell her aunt on her next visit.

  Once she had eaten the last crumb, Bobby handed her plate to Mrs Hampson’s outstretched hand with a grin and made her way down the cold corridor towards the stairs. The large windows on this side of the brick house faced north, so always felt cold, and she could understand why the Masons had decided to offer rooms to the war effort after their two sons had signed up to join the navy – the empty halls were eerily quiet and the Masons must have wanted some life back in them. Bobby and Sally had separate rooms with mahogany dressing tables and a yellow silk eiderdown on each bed. In Bobby’s room, there was a big window that looked out onto a large front garden, bordered by beautiful white rhododendrons that, in the spring, railed against the greyness of war. In the corner of her room, there was a cream wicker chair with a plump tapestry cushion that, if Bobby had ever had the time, promised to be a lovely place to curl up and read a book.

  Bobby took a moment to look around at the solid structure that had stood steadfast through the changing times of the Great War, the lively 1920s and the Depression. The building exuded calmness and sometimes Bobby had trouble remembering that there was a war going on outside its solid walls. The cheerful photographs in silver frames on every possible surface around the house were witness to a tranquil family. Bobby loved its peacefulness and could not help but compare it with her own home in Norfolk that always seemed to echo with ghosts from the past.

  Sally and Bobby normally ate with the colonel and his wife but they were an elderly couple who were used to eating in silence and after a while, the grandfather clock’s tick overwhelmed the stillness and Sally would catch Bobby’s eye for them to make their escape back to Hamble or to the local pub. But this evening, in the empty house, there were no such constraints and Bobby raced upstairs with a pan of hot water to wash her hair in Amami shampoo over the basin. She looked longingly at the bath but the whole household was only allowed five inches of water a week and that meant she avoided, as often as possible, having to bathe in the Mason’s used water. With her hair barely rinsed, Bobby tipped forward to towel it dry, which always took a long time because her hair was so thick. Eventually, she ran down the stone front steps to pick up her bicycle and cycle the short distance down Satchell Lane back to the ferry pool restroom.

  It was a dark route and with no lights allowed during blackout hours, Bobby pedalled as fast as she could trying to ignore the dark shadows in the shrubbery on either side. Like all the girls when they were cycling, she wore her trousers and a cap, tucking her hair up underneath, and put a cigarette in her mouth to look as masculine as she could to ward off any unsavoury characters who might be lurking. She heaved a sigh of relief when she arrived at the airfield.

  Hamble had become a cosy haven for the ATA female pilots. The girls entertained themselves through games, sewing, playing cards and writing letters, or listening to the radio that someone had won in a raffle. They had hung up blankets and material to make it warmer, but it was a constant battle to keep the heat in, especially when the athletic types like Christine insisted on having the windows open. There were some fresh flowers in a vase on the ta
ble by the door and the sweet aroma of the late autumn blooms pervaded the room. The blackout curtains were drawn, showing the flecks of white paint that represented the scrawled names of all the girls who were stationed at Hamble. Bobby could just spot where she had written hers with pride on the edge of the one on the left, the letters finished off with a triumphant swirl. The dark polished table in the middle of the room showed signs of discarded thin writing paper, a game of backgammon, and a book that was turned over to save the page, and all the girls, including Sally, were huddled together in one corner, chattering excitedly.

  Daphne looked up.

  ‘You made it. Just in time. We’re planning a night out. You up for it?’

  ‘OK,’ Bobby smiled, still not sure about this new social whirl which, since she was unused to living in a group, always made her a little nervous. She moved over to join them and squatted on the floor next to Daphne, tucking her legs under herself. Sally grinned at her and squeezed her arm.

  The girls received a constant flow of invitations from RAF men desperate for some female company and completely intrigued by these young women who commanded reluctant respect for the job they did. The pilots, who usually flew just one type of aircraft, were privately in awe of the ATA womens’ ability to fly so many different planes at a moment’s notice. Nearly always the products of families where women were very firmly in the kitchen, they felt uneasy in the presence of such competent girls and often over-compensated with bad jokes that very soon wore thin with the ATA women. But the invitations kept coming and, unbeknown to the girls, the pilots vied with each other to see how many ATA girls they could get to their party, totting up the results on a board in the officers’ mess at Gosport. The reward for the winner was a large whisky. Innocent of the significance of their presence, the girls just saw a night out as an appealing prospect.

  ‘We’ve been asked over to the Instructors’ party. Should be good,’ Sheila said. She was new to the ferry pool and was very excited that her new status gave her a power her mousy-coloured hair had denied her at previous social events.

  Bobby patted her own hair, which had gone a little wild on the cycle ride over, into place, wondering whether she had enough time to dash to the toilet to try to tame it.

  Daphne answered that question before she had time to ask it. ‘A driver’s picking us up in ten minutes, so who’s got a comb?’

  ‘Anyone got any face powder?’ Sally asked the room. They all ignored her. She had moaned all week about breaking her compact when she was forced to tip her wings to avoid a sudden rise in the Chilterns. The sudden movement had sent her makeup bag flying across the cockpit of the Swordfish she was flying, sending a flurry of powder all over the instruments. She had not been popular with the ground crew who had to clean it, but no one was crosser than Sally, who had been first in the queue on the day the note went up in the NAAFI announcing the arrival of a rare supply of face powder. It had made her late for signing in but, clutching her powder, she had taken the telling off with a triumphant smile. The others had never bothered with any face powder to begin with.

  The party was being held in the mess at Gosport and as soon as the double doors opened to herald their arrival, Sally, who was leading the way, was manhandled towards the piano and hoisted up onto the top of it. A young RAF pilot was cheerfully banging away at the keys, playing ‘Let’s All Go Down the Strand,’ looking up delightedly at the attractive girl in front of him.

  Daphne smiled at Bobby and then pushed her from side to side so they both swayed in time with the music, linking arms with the other girls who had gathered next to them. The men moved forward quickly to offer the newcomers drinks and then pushed their way to the bar to be the first to put their orders in. Sally was enjoying every minute of being the centre of attention and when two beers were handed up to her, she cheerfully took a large gulp of each, wiggling her hips in time with the music.

  Daphne leaned over to Bobby. ‘This beats the Old King’s Head at home,’ she said, taking a sip of her drink.

  Bobby did not have time to reply because she was swept up by a tall squadron leader, who whirled her onto the tiny dance floor and twirled her round until she was dizzy.

  *

  It was seven o’clock when Bobby’s shrill alarm went off the next morning. The ATA started their shifts at nine o’clock in the winter but they had been told they would not be flying until midday as low cloud and heavy rain were forecast, however, when she drew back the curtains in her digs, the sky was clear.

  She knocked loudly on Sally’s door. ‘Up you get, the skies are clear.’

  ‘Damnation,’ Sally muttered, grabbing her wash things and pushing past Bobby to head towards the small bathroom at the end of the corridor. Bobby followed her, but Sally was already staring into the mirror above the basin and pulling her face from side to side.

  ‘Ugh, this is not a pretty sight,’ she moaned. ‘I thought we weren’t supposed to be flying this morning or I wouldn’t have had such a good time.’ She smiled wanly at the memory of dancing in the middle of four men who were all cheering her on.

  Bobby tried to smile sympathetically but remembered Sally accepting several beers while she and the others kept to one.

  ‘You deserve those bags under your eyes,’ she laughed tentatively, beginning to enjoy this new camaraderie and pushed Sally unceremoniously out of the way to rinse her toothbrush in a tiny drop of water so it was ready for the toothpaste.

  Her mouth full, she listened to a catalogue of Sally’s conquests from the night before, but once she had spat the toothpaste out she said, ‘I don’t know how you do it, Sally. I couldn’t have drunk what you did last night and fly today.’

  Sally looked pleadingly at Bobby and said, ‘Please get me out of it, I don’t think I could see the runway.’

  Bobby shook her head in despair.

  The two girls grabbed some breakfast and cycled off at speed to the Hamble.

  *

  For once, Sally was looking worried. The reality of flying with a hangover was not one any of them could countenance. The ATA had started as a civilian organisation for male pilots to ferry RAF and Royal Navy warplanes between factories, maintenance units and front-line squadrons, but then Pauline Gower, an established pilot with her own air taxi business, used all her influence and determination to establish a women’s section. Sally had approached the job initially with arrogance, but now even she was starting to feel a keen responsibility not to let her hero – or the good name of the ATA – down.

  Bobby and Sally had joined the other girls, who were tucking into their porridge when Patsy, a plumpish girl with brown hair, came into the NAAFI. She was one of the most experienced pilots and had been in the ATA for longer than any of the others, having learned to fly out of Blackpool where her father owned a golf course.

  ‘They need an ops manager, anyone fancy it?’ she said to them with a trace of a Lancashire accent.

  In a blink of an eye, Sally put her hand up. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Bobby looked quizzically at her.

  ‘I can’t do much mischief behind a desk,’ Sally said, before standing up to follow Patsy out of the room.

  Ten minutes later, the girls stood in an orderly queue to await their instructions for the day from Sally, who had positioned herself behind a large desk, piled high with ‘chits’ for the waiting pilots. When it came to Bobby’s turn, Sally, with a wink, gave her three flights telling her one had been dropped because of the change in the weather. The first was a Wimpy to Sherburn.

  ‘You’ll have to stand up to see anything over the cowling,’ Sally warned her. Bobby checked the rest, a Swordfish, known as a Stringbag, to Silloth and a Hurricane to Abingdon and she hurried to the Met Office for an up-to-date report.

  The first run went without incident but by the time she landed at Silloth, the weather had worsened and as she approached the runway she was irritated to see the clouds suddenly thicken so visibility became poor. This was the sort of landing she hated the most, w
hen she could not see other planes’ approaches, and she was nothing but a small dot without a radio to warn of her approach. It was only when she got to about a hundred feet from the ground, that she was able to see the runway and her eyes narrowed while she scanned the skies to make sure there were no other planes coming in. The view in front of her was clear and she sighed with relief, bringing the Stringbag to a stop in front of the control tower. Time was running out and she raced out of the Swordfish to go to the Receipt and Despatch Office to get everything signed and then she ran out to the Hurricane. She looked in dismay at about ten sheep that were munching the grass under the fuselage.

  ‘Shoo!’ she shouted at them. She shared her father’s opinion that sheep were the stupidest animals, and certainly, these sheep hardly looked at her and carried on chewing.

  She ran up to them with her arms outstretched, shouting. One in front of her looked up disdainfully, so she swore at the lot and that seemed to do the trick. Frustratingly slowly, they meandered out of her way to a patch of grass at the other side of the runway and out of harm’s way. She checked her watch: it had cost her valuable minutes. Climbing into the cockpit, Bobby did her checks quickly and started to taxi out, but then the ground staff suddenly indicated she should change runways.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought. She looked at her radiator temperature, it was overheating and she was ten degrees above the safety level. She delved into the back of her mind for a solution and then remembered advice they had all been given once by an experienced instructor. Hoping he was right, she crossed her fingers that the slipstream would bring the temperature down. Luckily, her tactics worked and she moved to another runway to make her take off. After that, it only took one hour fifteen to get to Abingdon but then she had to wait for a Fairchild to come and pick her up. She stood shielding her eyes against the setting sun, watching for it to appear in the sky, but by the time she spotted it circling it was nearly last landing time, and just as it started its approach to the runway the ‘Unserviceable’ sign went up and Bobby knew she would have to stay the night.